Strings - Capstone Amal Al Shamsi (1)

Walking through the now-abandoned room, Hamza lazily arranged the canvases on top
of one another. The first layers were peeled off, almost sanded off, but the bottom layer seemed
to have come off with it, leaving behind the gritty canvas. In the drawers of the paint-speckled
school desk, there were papers so worn out it took a while to recognize them. Picking them up,
they almost fell apart in his hands. How many palms had rubbed over these postcards, or how
many times had the same pair held them? There was a message on the back, almost completely
illegible. It was sticky where a postage stamp had claimed to be. The image boasted a dazzling
blue sea overlayed cheaply by a secondary image of colorful tiles. ‘​Miss you in Algiers​.’
Lamya peered in from the hallway.
He folded the postcards in half, feeling them ache and tear slowly through the center.
Wherever these canvases would end up, the postcards would go with them. Something Hamza
and his family just were never meant to be part of.
“I didn’t know what to do with these canvases.”
“I was just about to ask you,” Hamza said.
“Her room, I left it for you,” she told him, “Will you wait for Qasim?”
“No, I thought you could… you know. I don’t think…”
She walked in, lingering beside him before stopping next to the window. The curtains
were missing, he could tell she was wondering where they went.
“They took down the curtains after he died,” Hamza said. It sounded dramatic, so he
added, “It smelled like food. He always ate in this room by himself.”
Lamya moved a cloth over the window sill. In the sunlight, the dust floated gracefully
around her. “Oh,” she said.
“My sisters can check her room. Later,” he said, “It’s okay.”
He knew what would be there. All the clothes were not hers, she bought them for her
daughters, dresses for them to wear. All untouched. Her style never fit their palates, but she kept
them anyway. Then there would be Arnaud’s things, maybe. The blazer he bought her with the
purple lining. It was her first and only blazer. It didn’t suit her, Hamza thought, but she looked
wonderful.
Still, he didn’t want to see it. Maybe his sisters called the man, Arnaud. Surely, he would
come and keep some of the things, if he liked.
“Or we can eat. Do you want to rest?” She asked.
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